


Torch like will-o-wisp

by Izvin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Burning of the Ships at Losgar, Burns, Corruption, Daddy Issues, Destruction, Family Drama, Family Loss, Fire, Gen, Hero Worship, Light and Darkness, Loss of Parent(s), Loyalty, Mental Instability, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, dependance, fall from grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izvin/pseuds/Izvin
Summary: „O, that creeping unease and worry, that unspoken "But ata..", that disbelief and terror and grief you want to supress, because this cannot be, mustn't be... And yet, it is. Eventually you have to admit it. And your response? You surrender, you follow, cause you are bound, cause otherwise you'd fall into different despair, cause you believe the same poison to be within you already too (and maybe rightly), cause you love and owe and can't resist and you promised and depend on and you crave. It will become hollow only much later and even then won't stop dragging you.“Or how talk in comment section led to a fic. Thanks, FakeCirilla9, for prompting me.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Torch like will-o-wisp

You watch the ships burn, bright and scorching even from afar. Tenderness of sails surrenders first, swallowed quickly by fiery blow. Pretty glass shatters and metalwork melts and soils with surrounding impurities. Vessels seem to rise, but they are actually slowly sinking. Beautiful curves, steadily straight lines, smooth surfaces, there is air of effortlessness surrounding their strong and graceful construction. Perfection. And it crumbles, envelope and skeleton blackened, twisted, crunching layers peeling one from the other, like vivisected. You can see them shrivel by combustion into nothingness. Proud masts, that seem to glow gold from fire and silver from stars and are so similar to trunks of certain recently deceased trees, lose their stability, topple and crush everything around, like faltering pillars. It is loud sound, but it drowns in screams of burning wood.

That sight fills you with awe. That sight fills you with terror and sorrow too, because something precious and exquisite is being ruined, being consumed so wastefully, sacrilegiously even. But there is no resisting.

Funny how something so white and clean can turn into so dark and foul smoke. You take few steps back, but you can’t escape. It brings unstoppable tears into your eyes, fills your nostrils and mouth, coats your throat and settles in your lungs, rushing to the bloodstream from there. Which runs hotter, the life within your veins, or those embers? You take another few steps back.

He doesn’t. You stop too. The ships burn, but He blazes, more radiant, volatile and mesmerizing than them. Your throat tightens more and not from smoke. Something in you, kindled since the first memory, something leaping back in response of small candle or lonely piece of charcoal to great hearth or a centre of forge. You are awakened and you tremble and cling both. Can you withstand that? And... Can you muster that? Ever? Atarinke – _little_ father... Not even that. Just a pale shadow, falling short. Resentment would feel better than fear. Fear that you will fail and disappoint Him. All the while He looks so fearless. Should He find out... Blaze is painfully bright and hot, but darkness behind your back is worse. And smoke’s everywhere anyway. You cannot not choose beacon. You can’t bear idea of being deprived of that, cast away for inadequacy and disloyalty. It is why they all swore to get Silmarils back, to follow Him.

And then your younger brother asks:

“Where is Ambarussa?”

Where indeed? There is six of you – Father, Kanafinwë, Turcafinwë, Morifinwë, you and Telufinwë holding torches.

“Where is my twin?!”

Nelyafinwë standing apart from you, for he disagreed (how can he, just how) with the burning. They both disagreed. Haven’t he joined him?

Fire is reflected in your oldest brother’s hair, arms crossed on his chest in disapproval, frowning eyes distant and aimed at the other coast and those abandoned there. Tall he is and on taller cliffs he stands, maybe he even sees something. You don’t care, you disowned those lands swamped in toothless apathetic misery. They belong to past, to shadow and yours is bright future.

“I’ve been here all alone this whole time.”

Then where? You look around.

“Pityo?”

Search the crowds of your followers.

“Pityafinwë!”

Trace the length of shore.

“Ambarto!”

Until your eyes stumble upon charred husks. He disagreed too. Nelyo wanted to sail for the Nolofnwë’s folk and Pityo to sail back. You forget the heat of flames, heat of exertion, liquid frost is in your veins, clutches your heart, cold sweat dampens you. Not Ambarto - exalting, Umbarto was their mother’s name for him – fated one.

“Brother…”

You have to hold his other half back, wrestle him into ashen salty sand to prevent him from throwing himself into drowning flames. Telu screams and sobs and struggles, red locks wet from sea water stick to his cheeks and wet red blood drops from his lips and last red embers sink into wet mournful embrace of the ocean together with your youngest sibling. It is over. Darkness seeps in and when your brother turns his head away from the waves to look at the Father, his eyes gleam unexpectedly sharp.

“It is your fault!”

And He stands above, still and looming like Taniquetil and beacon of His eyes dims a bit and that sight makes your heart clench even more than the awful realization from moments before.

“Don’t say that!”

You hiss, something between reprimand and desperate plea and you wish you’d sound more steady.

“Why not? Whose choice this was after all?”

Nelyo. He and twins, all three of them (no, only two now) have their mother’s hair and contrarian spirit. For a split second you feel as much wrath towards them as towards your enemies and aren’t they the same since they oppose? Only for a split second, because that’s exactly what the enemy would want, them splitting. _So what? Let’s separate the faithful from weak and treacherous, like noble metal from impurities in the ore._ No, that leads to… To…

“It was Pityafinwë’s choice to step on the ship in spite of our Oath.”

Father declares at last and his voice is steady and eyes back to full shine. The words are blow that sends tremors through your whole being. How can He? But it is a master’s blow, it must be, meant to reforge and strengthen and you accept it, take it in, would take hundreds more for the sake of light in His eyes illuminating the path. Grief is dead weight and you need your strength for upcoming fights, for the road He shows. Sky is black with smoke and those two points are the only light. You are reminded of dead Laurelin and Telperion. _No, not a second time._ There would be nothing left after the second time and those things that besiege you, vastness of void… Burn, please keep burning.

“Yes.”

You agree aloud and give challenging look to your brothers. When they avert their eyes, somehow it doesn’t feel like victory.

Next time you see fiery light, it is not one mastered by your kin, but by abominations serving Morgoth and their flame is tainted by foul fumes and crusty trash (but it’s not unlike last moments of swan ships, did they perhaps look just as noble in past). You are fearless and strong, all Noldor forces are, top brass of elder, but none matches Him and soon your Father outruns you. You think he might storm the very fortress where Morgoth hides, but then you spot commotion in front of its dreadful gate. He is besieged and though a fiery spirit like no other, fire that surrounds Him is overwhelming. He’s made mistake(s).

You race to help him, everyone does. _No, not a second time._ But you are not quick enough.

You chase the enemies from him, you bring him back to safety, but the wounds he suffered are too much. Red and waxy and charred into blackness, deep gnashes and wide stains, they seem to spread still, skin peeling off, shrivelled flesh, to the bone at some places, and so much red wet blood (is this what your deceased brother looked like). He trembles and tenses up in spasming pain, curses Morgoth and whines through clenched bared teeth, eye squirmed shut. You have called for healers, but you see the end will come even before they arrive. He’s made mistake(s), not so infallible… What did He lead you into? How dare He leave now, stranding you here?

He opens His eyes again and they blaze. They scorch away all your thoughts.

“Oath… Swear… Again…”

You do, you all do. When you finish, the blaze in His eyes erupts into all directions, consumesHhis body in a brilliant torrent, so white, it looks freezing. You have to cover your eyes. When you blink away sting and dark spots, Father is no more. Only cinders being blown away or mixing with dirt.

Years go by, fleeting triumphs followed by disasters, in this Arda marred everything fails sooner or later. And so do you. It is only ashes and sooth eventually, fire deceased. Ships sunk, father gone, alliances broken and kingdoms falling to ruin, all fading away. But the smell doesn’t leave, coating your skin and insides and carbonic remains seem impossible to wash away. They cling to waking time and to dreams, mayhaps you are actually charred too a bit. Probably. It will drag on, inescapable and everlasting. Whose fault is this? He promised. Were you not enough or He wrong? What does it matter when you can't fathom any other course... It is a paradox, which you for all your craftiness can’t solve. How did it come to be that a quest for light leads to darkness?


End file.
